


A Simple Lie

by BananaLoaf



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaLoaf/pseuds/BananaLoaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posting this here on advice from a reader!<br/>One of our boys has got himself in a spot of bother and a rescue mission is in order! Someone is not very happy about it. No major relationships, but hints of future D'Art/Athos. Enjoy! Now complete! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of the characters, just my own words! A shorter chapter to set the scene.  
> One chapter left to go!

He woke slowly, his mind trying to grasp where he was, because he sure wasn’t in his bed, or anyone else’s for that matter. He could comprehend little. As he began to focus on his situation the first thing he noticed was the pain as it seared through his back when he tried to stretch. He jerked back into his original position, which appeared to be lying in the foetal position on a cold, dirty, concrete floor. The noise he heard as he moved told him that the mixture of dull throb when still and sharp pain in movement that he could feel came from his wrists and ankles being shackled.   
He lay perfectly still, trying to keep his breathing calm, eyes adjusting to the gloom. From his position he could see the bottom corner of a door and what looked like the end of another shackle lying abandoned on the floor. So he wasn’t the first. He did have to wonder what happened to the other, or others, that came before him, but only briefly. First he had to work out how he came to be here, and how in hell he was going to get out.  
Did the others even know he was gone?

 

Aramis and Porthos met in the yard just as the sun was pushing through the morning clouds. For once they’d had a sober night, retiring fairly early after a strenuous mission. They were due at the palace early for security detail while the King and Queen went on some outing or other. Not their favourite job, but one that needed to be done on occasion. Now they waited on the third member of their party.  
“Where the hell is he?” Porthos grumbled.  
“He’ll be here, there’s still time.” Aramis stretched back, turning his face to the sun as he lifted his feet onto the bench.  
“Not much time! We’ll need to ride like hell to get there if he’s much longer.”  
“Perhaps he didn’t behave himself last night as we did my dear fellow.” Porthos just grumbled in reply. Aramis laughed. “Is that why you are so grumpy? Because you didn’t get to the pub last night?” He laughed harder when Porthos just rolled his eyes. Definitely true.  
They waited for another few minutes, but soon the other Musketeers on shift started to arrive, which told them time was definitely running out.  
“You’re right Porthos. He’s not coming. Do we fetch him on route? Or do we tell the captain?”  
Porthos shrugged. He didn’t want to land his friend in trouble, but he knew Aramis was thinking the same as he was. What if it wasn’t as simple as picking him up? What if he wasn’t there either?

 

It seemed like hours since he had woken in this painful position, but in all likelihood it was less than one. He was thirsty and hungry, and in all honesty, terrified. He had been cataloguing his aches and pains by making tiny little movements, and there seemed to be very few parts of him that were not in pain. Some places that hurt were definitely not making him happy. Still, he did not seem to be in danger of losing his life from his injuries any time soon. He would have to wait and see who came through the door ahead of him, and what they were planning to do with him when they arrived.  
But his mystery kidnappers were not his biggest worry. Instead he was terrified of what the rescue party that would surely come for him would do.  
Firstly he’d told Aramis and Porthos when they left him last night that he was going straight to bed. He hadn’t done that, and he was going to get his arse kicked (again) for lying and for not following their advice.  
But secondly, and most worryingly, when someone got back from his own mission this morning that had kept him away for a few days and found out what had happened he was going to explode.  
Basically, if he survived this, Athos was going to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! All but the last chapter is written, so I'll post the rest up every now and then until it's ready. :)

Captain Treville was not a happy man. When two of his best musketeers had come to him and explained that D’Artagnan was inexplicably late he’d been fairly frustrated and annoyed. Now that a messenger had returned from the Bonacieux residence with the news that the young Garcon had not returned to his lodgings, he was really pissed off. And not just a little bit worried.  
Porthos and Aramis had immediately been dispatched to trace D’Artagnan’s stpes from where they left him the night before, with others sent in their place to do their duty at the palace. The men had been silent as they left, the worry clear on their faces. The captain was not unaware that something had been worrying their young friend over the last few weeks. He hoped that all that happened was that D’Artagnan had taken himself out for some drinks and had fallen asleep in a ditch without the others there to see him home.  
He was clutching at straws and he knew it. The boy was a soldier, essentially, so to lose him in the course of his duties was something that Treville could sadly accept, but not like this.  
The captain was sitting behind his desk with paperwork spread in front of him when he heard footsteps climbing the wooden stairs, two at a time if he was any judge. He looked up, hoping to see a grinning Aramis or Porthos arriving with news about the boy. Instead what he got was the confused face of his most trusted Musketeer, and some abrupt questions.  
“What the hell is going on? Where is everyone?”  
“Athos! I wasn’t expecting you back until later. How did the mission go?”  
“Fine,” Athos practically growled at him. “As expected Captain. Now what is going on? There are only a handful of musketeers down there, and none of them will look at me. Is there something I should know?”  
Treville sighed. 

Aramis and Porthos had headed straight for the pub closest to where they had left D’Artagnan the night before, just two streets away from his home with the Bonacieux. He should have been safe.  
“Yeah, he was in here last night. He arrived quite late, but he managed to drink a fair bit.” The owner of the establishment grinned as he spoke of D’Artagnan’s drunkenness, but his grin soon faded as he saw the stony expressions on the musketeers’ faces.  
“Was he alone?” Porthos growled.  
“Um, yeah. Yes, he was. He sat over there in the corner,” the barkeep pointed to a solitary table in a dark corner, the kind that would usually suit a brooding Athos. “He didn’t speak to anyone, ‘cept my girl that kept bringing him drinks.”  
“Your girl?” Aramis piped in.  
“Yeah, my daughter Marie. She helps out. I can keep an eye on her here; no one dares touch her in my own bar.” He looked rather proud of himself.  
“Is your daughter here Monsieur? We must speak to her.” Aramis smiled reassuringly at the man, trying to communicate that his daughter was in no trouble.  
He sighed, putting down the dirty glass he’d been ineffectively polishing and left through a door at the back of the establishment, which must lead into the house attached. A couple of impatient minutes later the man reappeared, with a sullen looking girl following behind.  
Had Porthos been in a better mood or less distracted he may have commented that it was obviously not just her father’s presence that stopped the patrons taking liberties with the girl.  
Aramis smiled charmingly at her. “Mademoiselle, we must speak to you about a friend of ours who was in here last night. A young man, solitary, I believe he sat over there.” He pointed to the corner, not taking his eye off the girl in front of him.  
“Yeah he was in here for an hour or so. He didn’t say much. He never does, not recently.”  
“What do you mean?” Marie glared at Porthos when he questioned her sharply, but she answered him with a shrug.  
“Just what I say, recently he hasn’t had much to say for himself. He used to chat away quite happily, but now he just seems, well, a bit preoccupied.”  
“You mean he is in here often?” This bar was not one that the four of them frequented very often at all.  
“Almost every night for the last couple of months. Sometimes he comes in early and stays for the whole night, but often he has obviously been somewhere else first for some drinks before he arrives here. Last night he was late, but sober when he arrived.”  
Porthos cursed as Aramis sighed and thanked the girl and her father. They left abruptly, Porthos still cursing under his breath.  
“Porthos, calm down. We may still find him sleeping off a drinking session somewhere.”  
“He’s only two streets from home Aramis! Where the hell would he go? And you do realise the importance of what that girl said don’t you?”  
Aramis lay a comforting arm on his friend’s arm. “Yes, I know. Our young friend was drunk, and distracted by something he has chosen not to tell us about.”  
“And, if anyone wanted to take him, they knew exactly where to find him.”

D’Artagnan froze as he heard a key turning in the lock. He watched the door open and two dusty pairs of boots stalk into the room. He didn’t try to pretend to still be asleep, he wanted these bastards to know that he was strong, that he would fight them.  
“Ah you are awake, pretty one.” One of the men laughed as he crouched by D’Artagnan’s head. “We’re going to have lots of fun with you.”  
D’Artagnan didn’t say a word as the other man used his foot to nudge him onto his back. He ignored the pain that shot through him once again, desperately willing his eyes not to fill with tears as he tried to glare at the men who stared at him. The bigger of the two was the one still on his feet, and he leered at the young man on the ground, grinning at the pain he knew he had just inflicted on him.  
The other man began to run his fingers through D’Artagnan’s hair, whistling softly to himself. “We’ve made a good choice with you young one, oh yes.”  
The bigger man looked at his companion and grinned. “We’re going to make a pretty penny here and no mistake.”  
Fear filled D’Artagnan as he began to understand the situation he was in. He had to get out of here, he absolutely could not do this. The men were now ignoring him, discussing their plans. D’Artagnan desperately tried to concentrate on what they were saying, but found he could do nothing more than think of his friends, and pray that they would find him. ‘Please. Please find me. Before it’s too late.’  
He realised the two men were leaving the room, and focussed hard on what they were saying.  
“We best feed him,” the smaller man said. “He better be in good shape when we put him on the boat in two days, or our guts will be the boss’s latest underwear.”  
“Aye. I suppose so. We better get reimbursed for this!” The bigger man grumped as he pulled the door shut behind him.  
D’Artagnan rolled painfully onto his side once more, trembling from head to foot. Two days. That’s all he had. This time he did not stop the tears as they began to leak from his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What fun would it be if I just posted the whole thing?!? But I'm not that mean, so here's chapter 3. Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)

It was almost noon before the two musketeers arrived back at the barracks, hearts heavy as they entered the yard. They had not found their friend, but they had news to report and they weren’t looking forward to it.  
Inside, Treville was sitting at his desk, watching an agitated Athos pacing back and forth, and every now and again having to refuse to let him leave and follow the others, pointing out over and over that he could do nothing until the others returned with a lead for them to follow.  
Treville’s most stoic musketeer had not taken the news well when he had been informed that D’Artagnan may be missing. In fact, he had pretty much hit the roof. When the shouting and swearing had subsided, and Athos had stopped blaming everyone he could think of and himself for whatever had befallen his young friend, the captain of the king’s musketeers had spent a long time patiently explaining that they had no real reason to worry as yet, that Porthos and Aramis would most likely turn up with an extremely hungover D’Artagnan at any time. As the minutes stretched out, however, and turned into one hour, then two, Treville could do little else to calm his friend. He could see the man’s despair and anger, and, as long as he stayed where he could see him, thought it best to leave the man to his thoughts.  
Athos’ head was swirling with horrible images and a variety of emotions hit him as each went through his brain. Unfortunately, he was in the middle of a cycle of blame and anger when Porthos opened the door to the office and he and Aramis trudged inside.  
It took all of three seconds for Aramis to find himself slammed against a wall with two hands clutching his collar, with a furious musketeer glaring at him with eyes that danced with fire.  
“Where is he?! How the hell did this happen?” Athos spat the words at Aramis, clutching his collar even tighter as he fought to hold himself in check.  
“Easy Athos, this isn’t Aramis’ fault, or Porthos’!” Treville was by Athos’ side quickly, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He did not need his musketeers fighting amongst themselves.  
“The hell it isn’t!”  
Aramis continued to gaze calmly but sadly back at his friend, watching him battle with his emotions, trying to hide them as he always did. He had expected some kind of reaction from Athos, but he was disturbed by the real fear he saw in the eyes that glared at him. It was a feeling that he and Porthos shared, but Athos was not often visibly shaken.  
Suddenly, Athos sighed and let go of Aramis, his shoulders sinking as he stepped back from his friend, reaching up to pat once Treville’s hand that still lay on his shoulder. A reassurance that he was fine.  
It was time to move from anger to anxiety and fear now anyway.  
Porthos had stood quietly aside during this brief exchange, tensed and ready should he have to step in. Now he spoke. “The captain’s right Athos. We dropped him in the usual place, two streets from home. He lied to us, told us he was going home. Damn him!” Porthos swore as he expressed his anger at the behaviour of the youngest member of their team. The danger a simple lie can bring.  
Athos nodded and turned to look at Porthos, looking at the man for the first time. “I know. I apologise.” The two musketeers nodded their acceptance as the captain took his place at his desk once more. He looked at his three strong musketeers and saw a shared look of worry that was not going to be gone until they had found their newest recruit.  
“We’re wasting time gentlemen. I assume D’Artagnan was not to be found?”  
The three men approached the captain’s desk, Aramis shaking his head sadly. “Unfortunately not, no. But we do have some information.”  
Athos dropped his head to his chest as he waited to hear what his friends were going to say to their captain. He could feel a sense of dread fill him completely, compressing on his chest and making it difficult to breathe properly. He felt Porthos’ large hand squeeze his shoulder before he spoke.  
“We found out where he went Captain. Seems the lad’s been frequenting a new tavern, the one round the corner from where we usually drop him off.”  
Aramis joined in the tale: “The barkeep says he’s been going there for the last few weeks, and his daughter, the waitress, said he’s been quiet and moody of late.”  
Athos’ head shot up at this last statement. “There was something wrong with him? Why didn’t we notice? Why wouldn’t the fool tell us?” He managed to hold in his last question, which was why the other two musketeers, who had been in D’Artagnan’s company for the last few days, didn’t notice that something was wrong with him.  
Aramis just shrugged. Athos groaned and moved to the side of the room, falling into a seat with his head in his hands.  
“He’s not done something stupid Athos,” Pothos explained hastily, knowing exactly where the despairing musketeer’s thoughts had taken him.  
“No, not like that,” Aramis sighed. “No, we think someone took him.”  
This time it was Porthos who found himself slammed against some furniture, a look of desperation in his leader’s eyes as he growled out a request for a name.  
“We can’t be sure yet Athos,” Porthos replied, making no move to respond to the hands that clutched him and move away. “We had to do some digging.”  
“Explain!” Athos could feel the anger starting to well up again. They were obviously worried about telling him what they thought had really happened. He knew he was being irrational in his anger, but surely they should have noticed that D’Artagnan had been emotional and therefore distracted? Surely they should have walked the younger man to his residence, rather than leaving him vulnerable on the streets by himself? Athos ignored the thought that was nagging at him, that he himself had left D’Artagnan in the same spot on many occasions and thought nothing of it. It suited him to be angry right now; it would stop him falling apart if the news was as bad as he feared it could be. Just because he worked hard to hide his emotions didn’t mean that he felt none.  
Aramis spoke behind him. “We questioned a few of the neighbours and regulars. There’s been a pair of miscreants hanging around there for a few days, looking for something or someone. A few people reported overhearing snippets of careless conversation, hearing them discuss the appearance of people who walked by them, or customers in the pub.”  
Porthos looked into Athos eyes, his own filled with sadness, and sympathy. He braced himself for the reaction to what he was about to say.  
“They also heard a name. It seems they were working for someone, they mentioned a boss, and they mentioned only one name that was heard by anyone.”  
“What name?” Athos asked the question quietly, not moving an inch as he held tight onto Porthos.  
“Marchal.”  
Athos’ hands clenched even tighter.  
“Shit.” The captain voiced the thoughts of all the men in the room.  
Aramis sighed again. “We think he’s been taken to be sold.”  
“Someone must’ve put in an order that he fitted to a tee.” Porthos glanced at the captain as he spoke, bringing his eyes back to Athos as he noticed one of the hands move away from his collar.  
He saw the fist coming, a mere second before it slammed into his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one, as requested! Hopefully the whole thing will be up in the next few days...

D’Artagnan felt himself being hauled into a sitting position, realising he must’ve fallen asleep while waiting for the food he had heard mention of earlier. He groaned as he opened his eyes, his head throbbing with pain, the fuzziness he struggled to think through a result of both the alcohol from the night before and the moment he thought he could remember being knocked out from behind as he staggered home. He raised a hand to face, rubbing his fingers down it, the skin feeling tight from the tears he had been unable to stop earlier.

He realised two things at once. Firstly that the shackles on his wrists had been removed, and secondly that the person who had hauled him up must still be in the room, watching him.

He cracked open one eye to see the smaller man hunched in front of him, grinning like a madman. D’Artagnan mustered the most threatening face he could manage, which was difficult when he was still grimacing from pain and had a face that was most likely stained with tears.

“What is the meaning of this? Where the hell am I? You do realise that you will die for this?” He jutted his chin out proudly, showing no fear to this bastard.

The man just chuckled. “Somehow I doubt it, we’ve been watching you sonny. Unless you can bite through iron shackles and do it yourself, there ain’t anyone coming to save you.”  
D’Artagnan realised that this man had no idea who they had kidnapped, or who his friends were. He had to keep that information safe, in case he needed it later. They obviously hadn’t been watching him to closely.

“Why am I here? You have no right to keep me here!”

“I’ve got every right, I’m afraid it’s you that’s lost yours. You’ve been bought and paid for my lovely, a nice rich gentleman who’s going to be very pleased when he sees what we’ve got for him.”

The young soldier swallowed down the bile that rose to his throat as the man confirmed what he thought he had heard earlier.

“What do you mean?” He tried to keep the fear from creeping into his voice.

“Well it goes like this lad, the boss receives the orders, we get sent to find someone that fulfils that request, we bring them in, they get sent to the rich folk out in the country who ask for them. Simple as that!” The man shrugged, as if what he had just said was the most normal thing on earth. “You’re a bit of a special case though, took us a couple of weeks to find someone who matched that request. We get a lot of young girls through our doors, but requests for young men are a rarer occurrence.”

D’Artagnan resisted the urge to spit in the man’s face as he leered at him, baring brown teeth that were rather sporadically placed along his gums.

“And what happens to these poor souls when they get to their destination?” He dreaded the answer.

“Ah well now, you can’t tell me you’re that innocent my lovely. Someone wants you, someone’s paid for you, someone will enjoy themselves with you as they see fit. Poor souls eh?,” the man chuckled. “You’re one of them now boy, so best eat up and keep your strength up, don’t you think?” His chuckle developed into a full laugh as he pulled a bowl of beige stew from behind him and placed it in front of his captive, before rising to his feet and exiting the room. D’Artagnan seethed with anger as he heard the man laughing louder as he walked away from his cell.

xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx

Porthos groaned as he regained consciousness, finding himself lying flat out on the floor as his two best friends stood over him, arguing loudly.

“For the love of God Athos, what the hell? He said something you didn’t want to hear, that’s no reason to lay the man out! We’re all as worried as you are!” Aramis was yelling at Athos, who was clearly still seething with anger. Porthos realised he must’ve only blacked out for a couple of seconds. That was how he knew Athos hadn’t really meant it; he was capable of knocking him out for hours if need be. He groaned again, trying to get some attention – a moment of sympathy perhaps.

“Marchal has D’Artagnan, Aramis. Marchal!” Athos was yelling back now. “You do know what that means?”

“It’s not our fault!”

Porthos lay still, hoping they’d remember he was lying on the floor at their feet if they decided to lunge at each other.

“You left him alone. You’re the ones that came in here and said that some barmaid,” he almost spat the word, “some barmaid noticed that something was wrong with him. Someone who didn’t know him, and the two of you noticed nothing?!”

“Neither did you!” Aramis pointed an accusing finger at Athos.

“I wasn’t here!” Athos went silent after yelling the last, his face going white as he realised the truth.

Porthos finally spoke from between them.

“It’s not your fault either Athos.” The big musketeer pulled himself to his feet and took his friend by both shoulders, forcing him to look at him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve been here.” Athos’ head drooped as he spoke quietly.

Aramis sighed, letting his anger go quietly. “It would have made no difference my friend, the boy could’ve told us something was wrong weeks ago, he chose not to. We trusted him to go home, he chose not to. But this is entirely the fault of the people who took him, no one else.”

Athos nodded.

“So stop blaming yourself,” Porthos tapped him lightly on the face. “You don’t need any help to brood, man, so stop looking for excuses.”

“Ahem.” The three of them turned in surprise when Treville cleared his throat. They had almost forgotten he was there.

“Are you finished?” He asked dryly. “We do have someone to find, if you’re interested.”

“Right. Porthos, Aramis, take me to the people who saw these men.” Athos gave himself a mental shake, and took over. Back to business, that’s what he needed. “We need to try and work out who they are. We need to speak to the owner of that inn again too, if these men were in his pub I want to know about it. We need to move, quickly but discretely. If that bastard Marchal gets the idea we’re sniffing around then D’Artagnan could be in even more trouble. We have to hope that he doesn’t know his connection to us yet.” He lifted his hat from the captain’s table, putting on and stalking towards the door, quickly followed by his comrades. 

“Let’s go gentlemen; we don’t have time to waste.”

xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx xxxx

D’Artagnan, meanwhile, decided that his best option was to ignore the supposed food that had been left for him and take stock of his injuries. He quickly worked out that no bones were broken, but he also didn’t have any lacerations to speak of. His back was sore like it had been twisted painfully, and of course left positioned awkwardly while he slept off the blow that had knocked him out. This had made him think initially that he had been beaten pretty savagely, but it seemed unlikely now.

He had no injuries at all to his face, not so much as a black eye, which he quickly worked out was probably at the demand of his new ‘owner’. In fact he didn’t seem to have any serious injuries at all. He was painful all over from an uncomfortable night, and his wrists and ankles were painful, but as time passed he realised with some relief that he wasn’t in too bad shape at all. That would be useful when Athos, Aramis and Porthos came to rescue him and he had to run.

What disturbed him was when he realised that at some point he had been stripped naked. 

His trousers were on backwards for a start. His shirt was as normal, but that was all was wearing on his top half. His underwear was entirely gone. Obviously he had been inspected while he was unconscious, poked and prodded and checked out for this mystery rich bastard. That explained some of his discomfort in sitting – he obviously had been checked over pretty damn closely.

With a sigh he pulled the bowl of slop towards him and began to eat, grimacing at the cold, bitter taste. He knew Athos was due back today, and he knew the man he looked up to so much would be coming for him as soon as possible. All he had to do was wait.

He was almost sure of it.


	5. Chapter 5

At last Athos was feeling a tiny bit of hope. The three musketeers had spent the rest of the day questioning everyone they possibly could, and finally, as the sun was setting, they had found someone who could tell them something useful. He spoke willingly too, with Porthos’ arm pressed across the his windpipe in a way that left just enough space to talk, but no room for any kind of argument. 

“Are you sure you saw this?” Athos spoke calmly, as Aramis unsheathed his sword behind him and began to casually inspect the tip with his finger.

“Y-yes! Quite sure! I swear it, on my life!” The man did his best to look sincere, through a mask of absolute terror. Porthos squeezed into the man’s neck for a moment, causing the man to croak desperately. “Please! It’s true!”

Athos stared the man out for a moment, and then looked behind him at Aramis, who shrugged and nodded, convinced they had terrified the man enough into speaking honestly. Athos turned back to Porthos.

“Let him go before he soils himself, would you please?”

Porthos released the pressure from his neck, but grabbed hold of his arm firmly. “Come sir, we will provide you with a beverage to soothe your painful throat, while you tell us every single little detail of what you saw.” He barrelled the man back into the tavern they had removed him from just a few minutes earlier, followed swiftly by his friend, who shared a smile as they followed Porthos into the inn and to a table at the back of the room. Aramis signalled the owner, the same one they had spoken to that morning, who quickly arrived with drinks for all four of them.

“From the beginning, monsieur. And leave nothing out.” The threat behind Athos’ growled instruction was obvious to all of them. The man gulped down his drink, then began speaking quickly.

The three men listened avidly as he described coming across a pair of men dragging a third between them the previous evening. When they had seen him looking at them the taller of the two had laughed and called over, explaining that their friend had had a little too much to drink, weren’t they all the same, youngsters these days? The man had just smiled back and walked on, not liking the look of either of the two that stared at him. 

“Now that I think about it, it was a little strange, I mean he was out cold! He wasn’t gibbering away, like I do when I’m drunk. Like we all do, eh lads?” He grinned at his audience, receiving a murderous look from the one that appeared to be the leader, while the one with the strong arm moved his hand towards the pistol at his belt.

“What way did they go?” The third one spoke to him.

“East, I think? Yes, east.” 

“And the rest?”

“Well, it struck me that there might be some worth in seeing where they took their friend to, you know? Just to, um, check they got somewhere safely.”

Athos shot a hand across the table and grabbed the man by the throat. “We’ve told you, we shall accept nothing but the truth from you. Do not try to paint yourself as a hero.”

“Ok, ok. I wanted to see if they dumped him somewhere to see if I could empty his pockets for him ok?”

“Not good, but better. Continue.” Athos released his hold and sat back down. 

“Well, I lost them, obviously, but I did manage to tail them for a few streets until the disappeared.”

“And you are sure of what you heard?”

“Absolutely. They talked about having got him early, something about a boat. And they mentioned the name Marchal. That’s it.”

Aramis turned to his friends. “Early? That means they didn’t need to take him so soon, and if there’s a boat involved it may not have sailed yet.”

“Yes,” Athos nodded solemnly. “We may yet have time to save him.” He suppressed a grin as Porthos slapped him on the back in triumph. There was no cause for happiness, not yet.

“So is that it? Can I go?” The man started to edge off the end of his seat.

“Your name sir?”

“Moreau.” He made to stand, but was stopped by a large hand landing soundly on his shoulder.

Porthos grinned at him. “Well Moreau. I’m afraid we must press on your time a little longer.” He pulled the nervous-looking crook to his feet. “First you’re going to show us exactly where you followed those men before you lost them, you stupid arse.”

“And then?”

Aramis pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the idiot, gesturing he should start heading out. “Then, my dear fellow, you are going to come back to the barracks with us and have word with our captain about this odd little habit you have of relieving semi-conscious drunks of the weight of the coins in their purses.”

Moreau’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he headed out of the inn, Porthos’s hand still heavily on his shoulder, Aramis’ pistol pointed at his back. Athos took a moment to lift his glass with a shaking hand and drain the wine from it, allowing himself a brief moment to feel the hope that was desperately trying to take him over. He shook it off as he pulled his hat on to his head, stalking out of the building to follow the others. 

Back to business again.

They spent just ten minutes following Moreau around the dark streets and alleys of Paris before he stopped at a corner. 

“When I reached here they had vanished. I was only a few seconds behind them so they can’t have gone far.”

The four of them peered down the alley. It was short and ended in another street that ran across the bottom. There were no house doors in the alley, just a couple of smaller lanes that ran off each side.

“So either they went into one of those lanes...” Began Porthos.

“Or Moreau here was slow enough that they disappeared into that street at the bottom.” Aramis finished his thought for him, his heart sinking at the thought that they may not be as close to finding their friend as they had thought. He glanced at Athos, noting the grey pallor of his grim face that suggested he had had the same thought.

The musketeers all turned as one to look at the fourth member of their party.

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t make the street, I wasn’t that far behind them, I told you.”Moreau shrugged.

“Yes, but it would not take long to reach the far end of an alley such as this.” Aramis spoke gravely.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting something. It wouldn’t take us long to make it no, but then we’re not carrying the dead weight of an unconscious man between us are we?” 

Aramis looked at Moreau as if he could hug him as he realised that the man spoke nothing but sense. He turned to Porthos and shared a grin, while Athos started quietly walking down the alley. The others watched in silence as he began to investigate the scene, drawing his pistol as he approached the mouth of the first lane.

“What’s-” A hand was clamped quickly over Moreau’s mouth and a pistol placed quickly against his temple. He looked up at the angry face of Porthos, who held a finger to his lips. He watched as the finger moved to draw a line slowly across the musketeer’s throat. Moreau nodded quickly, but the hand and pistol were not removed.

When they looked back into the alley Athos was appearing into it from the first lane. Evidently he had investigated and found nothing, as he crossed over to the lane on the other side. Quickly, he was back in the lane, walking towards his men with a determined look on his face.

He spoke quietly. “The lane on the left is just empty space, but there is a door in the one on the right. It’s locked up tight. A good, quiet place to keep captives.”

“Well, what next?” Porthos asked the question eagerly, feeling the anger and worry pile up again as he realised how close they could be to their friend.

“We waste no time. We take this fool back to the barracks, and gather the troops.”

“We’re going in? We don’t even know if he’s there.” Aramis wasn’t sure why he was resisting, but he thought it may have something to do with hopes, and not wanting to raise them too far.

“Well, we will once we’ve been through the place won’t we?” Athos nodded firmly. This was the plan, and there would be no arguments heard. “We have to try, and we have to hope that if this is where he was taken to then he is still there.”

Athos turned away and stalked away, trusting that the others would follow quickly. He needed to get D’Artagnan out of the clutches of Marchal, and he needed to do it now. For his own sanity as well as his friend’s safety.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, but it fills in some necessary gaps! That's why I'm posting both. :)

No one had come back to re-shackle D’Artagnan’s hands, so while he waited he took some time to stretch and twist his back, massage the muscles in his legs, and generally get himself ready to make some kind of escape attempt. If he was being sold he had to be delivered, and he was damned if he was going to make it easy for them. The fact that he had to arrive in one piece was something he may be able to use to his advantage.

It had been hours since his meal had been brought, and he didn’t appear to be getting another one any time soon. He had yelled for a while for a drink and eventually the larger of the two men had appeared with a tankard of questionable water, which D’Artagnan had been rationing throughout the day. It was nearly empty.

The shaft of light that shone through the gap under the door was the only light in the windowless room, and it was beginning to fade. Nearly night time then. Surely his friends would be looking for him by now? Being rescued by them was a much more preferable option to having to fight his way out, but he had to be ready, just in case. Sleep then, that was the next thing he needed to get some more strength. By his reckoning he had another night in this hole before they tried to move him, so he best try to rest while he could.  
With a sigh he sat back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging his arms around them. He tried to fold his slender body into itself, waiting for the cold that would set in before too long when the sun had finally set. He rested his head on his knees, recognising a feeling of despair that washed through him as he resigned himself to a night in that position. He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, trying to stay calm and persuade his brain to switch itself off and let him sleep.

He found himself wondering what his musketeers were doing instead.

He knew they would be out there doing something to find him, he trusted them absolutely and without question, but he couldn’t see how they had a chance in hell of finding where he was. But they were brilliant investigators, all of them, and D’Artagnan knew that if anyone had a chance of finding him, they did. Aramis would be using every bit of charm in his arsenal as they questioned people, finding out secrets and information in a way that never failed to impress him. Aramis seemed to be able to get people to confess almost anything to him.

If he couldn’t then Porthos was there to draw himself to his full height and terrify the life out of anyone who refused to talk. His strength was legendary among the regiment, and D’Artagnan could remember quite clearly the terror he had felt when he saw the big musketeer coming to back up Athos when he had foolishly challenged him to a duel at their first meeting.

Athos. He would be back in Paris by now, back from the ‘official business’ the captain had sent him on. He blushed as he remembered protesting loudly when Athos had told them he was going off alone for a few days, a lone mission. Athos had simply raised an eyebrow in reply, while Aramis and Porthos grinned at the younger man’s embarrassment as he tried desperately to explain that he had just meant that he shouldn’t be going on official work alone, and that he would gladly accompany their leader as backup. Athos’ mouth had twitched in amusement as he informed D’Artagnan that he was simply delivering something for the captain, and he was going because he had met the recipient before and would be trusted. Not a dangerous mission, or one that was worth losing more than one musketeer from Paris for several days.

So Athos had gone, and D’Artagnan had missed him. It frightened him a little how attached he had become to all three of the men, and how quickly. But he was aware that he was beginning to idolise Athos, and he was going to keep embarrassing himself if he didn’t learn to hold his tongue, and his temper. 

He found himself hoping he had the chance to.

D’Artagnan lifted his head from his knees, stretching his neck and he rested the back of his head against the wall that already supported his spine. It was completely dark in the room now. Finally, he began to doze.

He had no idea how long had passed when he was fully wakened with a jolt by a lot of noise and shouting somewhere nearly. His heart leapt into his mouth in hope and he let himself believe that his rescue party had arrived. He pulled himself quickly to his feet, cursing the shackles that still scraped against his ankles. When they came in he would be ready!

His heartbeat was fighting with the increasing noise of shouting to be responsible for deafening him. Was that gunshots he heard? It sounded like there was a full-scale war going on not far away from his cell. What was going on?

The door to his cell was thrown open and a tall figure came in, a torch in hand.

“Athos!” D’Artagnan breathed in relief. The man walked quickly towards him, as another came in the door behind him. 

D’Artagnan’s felt disappointment shatter his heart as the man with the torch came into focus in front of him.

“Fraid not sonny,” One of his captors leered angrily at him. “Now stay quiet!” 

“Athos!” D’Artagnan managed to yell once for his friend before he was punched harshly in the stomach and a canvas bag thrown over his head when he doubled over. He felt the shackles around his ankles being removed as he struggled to regain control of his lungs, then he was thrown over someone’s shoulder. He heard the scraping of concrete and began thrashing wildly. He had to get free, they were here! He had to stay put until his friends came for him.

“Enough!” He heard the gruff command from the man who didn’t carry him, then a blow to the back of the head. 

Dimly, he felt himself being jostled as his carrier started to move quickly, but he couldn’t hold on any longer and let his world go black.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter. I haven't written the last one yet, I may do it today but in the meantime this is you caught up with where I've got to! :)
> 
> Thanks very much for your continued support, you're all very kind, so far! ;-)

Their hope was fading as they approached the last doors of the winding corridor they had fought their way to. On their return to this hidden lane, with six other musketeers as back up, Porthos had pointed out that they had the element of surprise on their side, so why not take it? Athos and Aramis had agreed, and with a pistol blast to the lock on the wooden door, all nine musketeers had fought their way inside, meeting an unexpected level of resistance on the other side; Marchal’s operation was obviously bigger than they had believed, but they were obviously in the right place.

After what seemed like hours of fighting, with panic rising that D’Artagnan would be moved or disposed of in the interim, a sufficient amount of men had been dispatched that left enough for the six extra soldiers to deal with, allowing the Gascon’s three friends to search for him thoroughly.

Now, with only two doors left to search behind, despair was settling in as they accepted that they may have acted in error. Athos stood aside and waited as Porthos threw open the next door, a quick search revealing nothing, as was evident by the look on his face as he shook his head to his leader on leaving the room behind. Athos drew his shoulders back; one more to go. Might as well face it.

He approached the door cautiously, anticipation making him feel like every step took a lifetime. He reached out, turning the metal handle, and took a deep breath as he threw the door open. With a shout, he, Aramis and Porthos all leapt into the room, pistols drawn. 

Porthos growled and Aramis kicked the door in anger as they found the room empty. Athos let his body fall back against the wall, his head falling back against it, unknowingly positioning himself in an upright echo of D’Artagnan’s position of only minutes before.

The men stood silently for few seconds, until Porthos suddenly kicked a discarded tankard across the room.

“Shit! How the hell did they get him out?!?”

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When D’Artagnan’s head began to come back into focus he was still being carried, and he could still see nothing as the bag over his head had not been moved. The pounding from the blow to the back of his head made it difficult to focus, but he appeared to be with both of his captors, and they appeared to be arguing. He tried desperately to work out what they were saying, but his ears were ringing slightly and all he could hear was the angry tone of a fairly quiet conversation. He decided to keep quiet as he was in no fit state to fight back.

Suddenly, their progress stopped. He heard the scrape of a key in a lock and he was quickly carried up what he assumed were some steps. Another door was unlocked at the other end and he was unceremoniously dumped off his transport’s shoulder. As he hit the floor painfully D’Artagnan forced himself to stay limp and swallow the yell that wanted to burst from him. The bag over his head was roughly pulled off and a sharp slap was applied to his face, causing him to open his eyes in shock at the sudden pain. He gave the men his best glare, while pulling gently at the ropes that had been tied around his hands while he was briefly unconscious.

The ringing in his ears was started to abate and he pulled himself to a sitting position, kicking his feet out as he did so to let them know he was going nowhere easily.  
They were unconcerned.

“Musketeers? Soddin’ musketeers!! Who the hell are you, you little piece of shit?” Both of the men were glaring at him in genuine hatred and D’Artagnan felt flecks of spittle hit his face from the one who yelled at him.

He said nothing in response, just gave them his best, smug, grin  
.  
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“Wait!” It was Aramis who shouted as the others started towards the door. 

“Forget it Aramis,” Porthos’ voice was sad, but he didn’t stop. “Either they moved the boy hours ago, or he was never here to begin with. There’s no way they got out that door with our men beside it.” He clamped a heavy hand on Athos shoulder as they continued out.

“No! You great lump, look!” 

Both of them turned simultaneously back towards the room, looking quickly to where Aramis had crouched on the ground and was pointing at the tankard that had been viciously kicked moments before.

“What?” Athos couldn’t see what Aramis was getting at. Porthos just shrugged behind him.

“Look! There was a little bit of water left in there, and it spilled along the edge of this slab in the floor when Porthos kicked it.” He pointed at the slab at his feet.

“I can’t see anything,” Porthos was a little worried that his friend was going insane in his worry.

“Exactly.”

“Um, ok ‘Mis.” Porthos looked over at Athos, who looked as baffled as he was. Aramis sighed and stood up, walking over to his friends, and trying very hard not to knock their stupid heads together.

“Listen. When that water spilled there was only a little bit left, and it poured along the edge of that slab.”

“You said that part,” Athos practically growled in impatience. They didn’t have time for this.

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Right, and I saw it. So where is it now?”

“Sorry?”

“The...water...has...gone!”

Athos slid his eyes to the ground as comprehension dawned. He looked up at Aramis and grinned, seeing Porthos do the same. “Bit cold for evaporating isn’t it?”

“Indeed. And there’s still water at the slab before, so unless this one has been heated...”

“Would you like to do the honours Porthos?” Athos swept his hat off majestically as Porthos stepped forward eagerly. The big musketeer used his sword to pry up the edge of the slab in question, before grabbing underneath with one hand. Aramis stepped forward and took his sword off him, leaving Porthos with both hands to grab under the slab and haul it aside.

A tunnel ran below the room.

Athos grinned. “Who wants to go first?”

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D’Artagnan’s silent grin seemed to incense the men even further.

“I asked you a question!” A hand shot out and grabbed the young soldier’s chin, but he didn’t let his grin fade. He simply twisted his face out of the man’s grip.

“Ah now, you never asked who my friends are, did you?” If his situation wasn’t so dire he could’ve laughed at the obvious desire both men had to punch him soundly in the mouth, and the fight they were having within themselves to hold themselves back. He decided to try to push it a little more. “You see, if you’d bothered to check anything out, before you decided I fitted your little ‘shopping list’, then you would know that I was training to become a musketeer, and that I happen to be under the tutelage of the three finest soldiers in the regiment.”

The men continued to glare in shocked silence.

“They don’t take kindly to their men coming to harm, did you know that? I wouldn’t want to be you two when they find you.” D’Artagnan was still grinning, and trying to sound his usual cocky, confident self, but something inside was stealing screaming at him about the amount of danger he was in. Turns out that part was correct.

Suddenly the larger man grinned, walking towards D’Artagnan and signalling something to his partner. Suddenly, the smaller man pounced on the captive’s legs, pinning them painfully to the ground and beginning to tie them together. The other spoke as he lifted the bag to replace it over D’Artagnan’s head.

“Shame we’ll not get to find out whether you’re lying or not isn’t it?” He easily stilled the thrashing man and covered his face. “We’ve got you an earlier boat, and I’m afraid it’s time to say goodbye.”

This blow to the back of the head harder than the last.

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By the time the musketeers reached D’Artagnan’s second holding cell he was long gone. This time, though, they didn’t stop for breath. The second door in the room led onto a street, two miles from where they had begun their search. 

They paused for a moment to get their bearings. 

Aramis was the first to realise their location. “There’s docks not far from here, come on!” He yelled over his shoulder as he took off at a run into the darkness, quickly followed by his comrades. They followed him through winding streets and dark alleys at full speed. Aramis found himself chanting prayers as he ran. His prayers stopped as suddenly as he did, throwing out his arms at his sides to signal the others to stop. The alley he had led them down opened onto the docks, a wide, open area.

“Now what?” Porthos looked to Athos to take charge. He received a nod in reply, then watched as Athos snuck out of the alley and crouched behind a stack of crates not far from where they stood. He quickly shot his head over the stack, looking around him, before ducking back down and heading back to his friends. 

“Right. There is a boat in the dock that is being loaded up as we speak. There are a dozen men working at it, a couple of faces I recognise, and not for good reasons. This could be it. Either way, they’re loading a boat in the middle of the night, and should probably be stopped and questioned. There are another two men patrolling away from the dock, closer to us, both armed with pistols. What?” Athos paused to raise a questioning eyebrow at a grinning Aramis.

“Nothing, it just always amazes me when you do that.”

“What?”

“See everything.”

Athos just shrugged and continued issuing instructions. He briefly regretted leaving the rest of the men guarding Marchal’s men that were left alive, but shook it off. They could do this.

“Ready?” Athos drew his pistol and waited for a confirming nod from his partners. On receiving them he led the way onto the dock, shouting their presence and taking a shot at the first patrol guard. He rolled out of the way, hearing another shot behind him as Aramis took out the second. Porthos ran past him as he rolled to his feet, meeting Aramis as they both ran behind Porthos. 

The shout of “Musketeers!” was met momentarily by panic, but Marchal’s dock men quickly got themselves under control, pulling weapons from their holders, and spreading out to guard their goods. Three of them ran forward, rushing to meet the three soldiers that ran at them in fury.

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D’Artagnan was woken by the sound feet pounding heavily and swords clashing near him. Instinctively he tried to reach up to remove the covering from his face, but found his hands tied behind his back this time. He was forced to lie still, listening to the sounds of the fight near him, and hoping to God that someone he wanted to see would appear by his side.

He heard a yell and groan, the sound he had heard many a time as he ran a man through with his sword, and decided this was the time to make his presence known.

“Here! I’m in here!” He began to thrash his entire body, desperately trying to rip the ropes from his hands, or his feet. He stilled as a door opened behind him, tensing his entire body as he waited for what was to come. Someone approached and crouched by him. He was rolled quickly onto his front, but relaxed slightly when hands went to the ropes at his wrists and began to untie them.

“Athos?” He asked quietly, fear creeping into his voice.

“Wrong one boy.” The hands pulled the ropes away, before moving to his feet.

“Porthos!” D’Artagnan took a deep breath as the musty-smelling bag was finally removed from his head. He blinked up at the musketeer. “Oh thank God! I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see you!”

Porthos reached out to help D’Artagnan to his feet. “C’mon, we’ve got to get out of here, quickly.”

“Porthos?”

“C’mon boy!” Porthos grabbed D’Artagnan by the arm, dragging him out of what appeared to be a small room in the base of a boat.

“No!” The younger man used all of this strength to pull his arm free stopped. “What is going on? Where’s Athos? And Aramis?”

Porthos could have punched the boy’s stubbornness from him in that moment. “They’re together. We need to get you off the boat, now move!”

This time D’Artagnan allowed himself to be led from the vessel. They snuck across the open dock, the shock on the boy’s face at the sight of the bodies that littered the ground quite visible. Suddenly he understood; if whoever had taken him had this many men, chances are he had even more, and they could be on their way. They reached the alley at the far side and ducked out of sight into it.

Now Porthos could take the time to check on his charge. “Are you in one piece?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I’m fine, just a bit stiff. They took care of me, for their client.” He spat the word. Porthos looked at him carefully, but on seeing he spoke the truth he began to lead them quickly through the streets that would soon begin to lighten.

“So where are they?” D’Artagnan was having a hard time keeping up with the taller man’s stride, but he was damned if he was going to say anything.

“What?”

“Athos? Aramis? You said they were together. I thought you’d all be there to get me” He tried to keep the childish disappointment out of his voice.

“They were,” Porthos cleared his throat. “They headed back to the barracks a little while ago.”

“What? Why?”

Porthos shrugged. “There was only one left to take care of, and I said I would get you.”

“That’s not the whole story Porthos, don’t treat me like an idiot. Why were you the one to stay?” D’Artagnan came to a dead stop as dread filled him once again. “What happened?”

“Well there was only one left to deal with, but before that...”

“For God’s sake! Just spit it out Porthos.”

The musketeer turned to look at the young man, not bothering to keep the worry off his face.

“Athos was fighting three of them at once.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes.

“And one of them ran a sword into him.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's pretty long! But there was quite a lot to get through... Hopefully you'll enjoy!

By the time D’Artagnan and Porthos skidded to halt on entering the barracks, dawn was breaking over Paris. As they ran through the gates they came face to face with Aramis, Treville and at least two dozen more musketeers coming towards them looking extremely serious. Everyone stopped.

 

“D’Atagnan!” Aramis was obviously delighted to see him, moving away from the captain’s side to come and clasp him warmly by the shoulders. “Are you alright?”  
D’Artagnan was seriously confused. He had run full pelt all the way back to the barracks, praying fervently that Athos would not be dead, this was not what he had expected to be greeted with. “Where’s Athos?” he asked Aramis desperately, ignoring his question.

“Let’s move men!” The captain nodded at D’Artagnan and Porthos, then started moving again, leading his troops towards the gates.

“What’s going on?” Porthos watched the men march past them.

Aramis still had his hands on D’Artagnan’s shoulders and was looking him up and down, trying to assess for himself if their young friend was injured. He glanced at Porthos as he gave him an answer. “We were coming to get you both, and then clear out the docks. Marchal’s operation has to be stopped this time.” Porthos nodded and Aramis turned his attention back to D’Artagnan.“Are you alright? Answer me or I shall have to check you for myself!”

D’Artagnan replied with a glare that he was fine and repeated his earlier question, with more anger in his voice than before. He needed to know what had happened to Athos, now! He heard Porthos repeat his request for information.

Aramis sighed. “There is a surgeon with him.”

Porthos sounded appalled. “Is it so bad that you couldn’t deal with it yourself?”

Aramis quickly shook his head. “No, no. I didn’t even look at him. The captain saw us staggering through the gates and called the surgeon out. He had sent for him while he waited for us. The surgeon wouldn’t let me stay, so I joined the forces ready to go back to the docks.”

D’Artagnan was trying desperately to control his breathing as the familiar feeling of panic moved through him. He shook Aramis’ hands off and ran towards the stairs.

“D’Artagnan! There’s nothing you can do just now, he won’t even let you in!” Aramis shouted after him sadly.

“The hell they won’t!” The other two watched in silence as he sprinted up the stairs and along to the room the surgeon usually used, knocking on the door once before pushing it open and disappearing inside.

“How bad is it?” Porthos slid his eyes to Aramis, who sighed and looked down.

“I honestly don’t know. We made it back here, but I don’t know how much further he would’ve managed. He didn’t get run through and it’s in his side, not his stomach or chest, so we just need to pray.” His right hand moved to the cross that lay under his clothing. Both men sighed simultaneously.

“So now what?”

“Well, either we follow the captain and help bring in Marchal, or we wait here and get drunk and wait to see if Athos makes it.”Aramis shrugged.

“Well I know what I’d prefer to do.”

“Me too. But I think we would go mad waiting, so let’s go and get the bastards that got us into this mess in the first place.”

The two musketeers looked once more up the stairs to the room that held their ailing friend, sadness and worry etched clearly on both their faces. Simultaneously, they turned away and headed towards the gates in determined silence.

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“I asked to be left alone with my patient!” Was the curt greeting that met D’Artagnan as he entered the room.

“Then you should have locked your door.” He shook his head firmly as the surgeon turned to look at him, “I won’t get in your way, but I’m not going anywhere.” He folded his arms for good measure.

The surgeon sighed. “Fine. I’m finished here for now anyway, so you can do your duty by this soldier and stay with him until I return to check on his progress.”

D’Artagnan took a step forward; irritated that he still could not see the patient. “What do I do?” He asked nervously. The surgeon moved away from the bedside to wash his hands in a bowl of water on a table at the side of the room. D’Artagnan felt something swoop horribly in his stomach as he noted the blood that covered the man’s arms to the elbows. He looked away and took his place by Athos’ beside. The view that greeted him there didn’t make him feel any better.

Athos was grey and unconscious. He looked...weak. It made D’Artagnan feel very strange to see this normally strong and sure man brought to such a poor state. He hastily wiped at his eyes as he felt tears well up before they spilled over. The musketeer looked like death.

The surgeon appeared at his side. “Stay with him.” D’Artagnan nodded hastily, unwilling to speak lest his voice should crack. “If he wakes give him water, food if he wants it. He will be weak and in pain, but I will return later to help him sleep again. If he begins to seem feverish, have me fetched immediately.”

“Will he live?” the question was whispered.

A hand rested on D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I don’t know. If he wakes without fever then the signs are good. He has lost a lot of blood, but I do not believe his injury on its own would be life threatening if it were not for that.” With one last look at his patient, the surgeon left, pulling the door shut firmly behind him. D’Artagnan immediately dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching out to squeeze the hand that lay on the bed in front of him.

“Athos?” Now his voice definitely cracked. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. Please don’t die. Please don’t go. I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry.” D’Artagnan leaned forward and rested his head against their two hands. “I should never have gone to that damned inn. I should not have lied to Porthos and Aramis and should’ve gone to my rooms like I said. If I had done as I promised then none of this would’ve happened. You have to live Athos!” He raised his head to look at the scarily still man in the bed. “You can’t let me spend the rest of my life with this guilt, surely?” He smiled crookedly at him, before dropping his head back to their hands.

With a sigh he closed his eyes. “I should’ve spoken to you sooner. I just...didn’t want any of you to judge me. Instead I decided to drown my sorrows in wine, took a leaf out of your book, you know?” D’Artagnan rose to his feet and began to pace the room, his emotions swirling through his head and heart. “So stupid.”

He paced for a few more minutes, pausing to look over at Athos every now and again, just to see that his chest still moved and hadn’t stilled. Exhaustion was starting to set in with the young soldier, but he refused to let his body rest until he had some sign that he was not going to be responsible for the death of this man he admired so much. He couldn’t be.  
But it wasn’t long before his body began to protest at the pacing and demanded he sit down. He dragged a three-legged stool to the bedside and sat looking over his friend, his hand reaching out as before to clasp around the pale one on the bed. He slid his fingers round until they were pressed on the underside of Athos’ wrist, feeling for that comforting rhythm that would tell him he had not been left alone. It was still faint, but it was steady for now. D’Artagnan leaned forward and once more laid his head on their joined hands.

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A few hours later, the door to the sick room opened gently as Aramis and Porthos stepped quietly through it. They were greeted by the sight of their friend and leader, still lying pale and still in the bed, with the head of a sleeping Garcon on the bed beside him. His head had rolled to the side and both men could see the clasp he still had round the wrist of the musketeer lying close to death in the bed before him.

Aramis stepped forward and gently shook his shoulder. “D’Artagnan? Come on, wake up.”

Two dark eyes blinked blearily for a moment before his head shot up to look at Athos. “Is he...?”

“Still sleeping. Like you. Now come on.” Aramis gently removed Athos’ wrist from his grasp and pulled him to his feet.

“What? No, I’m not going anywhere.” D’Artagnan tried to pull himself out of the musketeer’s grasp, but he didn’t have the strength.

“Yes you are. You are going with Porthos to get something to eat, and then washed up.”

“But, Athos...”

“Will do just as well with me by his side as you. I want to have a look at his injuries anyway, and I don’t think he would appreciate the audience.” The look on Aramis’ face gave no room for argument, and was backed up by the loud noises suddenly issuing from D’Artagnan’s stomach as his brain registered that all he had eaten in at least two days was one bowl of sludgelike stew. Porthos’ hand on his arm was the final decision.

“Come on, let’s get you fed. I think maybe a chat is in order too, eh?”

D’Artagnan nodded and let himself be led from the room, aware that he owed all three of his friends an explanation, and hoping that one at a time would be easier on him.  
Aramis took a seat on the stool the younger man had vacated and looked at his friend sorrowfully. “C’mon old friend, it’s about time you were waking. I don’t want to be left with a grieving young pup to have to save from himself. I’ll have enough to do, thank you very much. I think you’ve owed me enough over the years to avoid putting me in that position, don’t you?”

Athos remained still. Aramis sighed, and began to pray.

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D’Artagnan was sure he would not be able to eat, but as soon as Porthos put a bowl of stew that actually looked like stew in front him he latched on to it and ate ravenously. The two of them sat in a private room at the barracks, while the musketeers outside dealt with the arrests they had made at the docks.

“Are you sure you’re alright? They didn’t hurt you?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “N, iddit urt mu. Ust Ucumfble an ode. Kp me nis fr clant.”

“I think I’ll wait till you’ve swallowed for an answer that I can understand, thanks.”

He swallowed the mouthful and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, no they didn’t. I was just uncomfortable, and cold. They were keeping me nice for his client, whoever the hell he was.”

“You sure?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Yeah. They knocked me out a couple times, so my head’s a bit sore. But I’m fine.”

“They didn’t...” Porthos looked for the right words. “Interfere with you, in any way?”

“No.” He blushed, slightly awkward in the conversation. “They had a good look at me I think, while I was unconscious.”

“What makes you say that?” Porthos raised an eyebrow.

“I was a little bit, um, uncomfortable, but I couldn’t work out why. Until I realised I had no underwear left on. No-one ‘interfered’ as you say though, I’m sure of that.”

“Bastards.”

“Do you know who they were?”

Porthos sighed. “The man who ordered you taken, was a dirty scumbag called Marchal. We’ve come across him before. It all went a bit wrong last time, and the bastard got away. Athos never really got over it, blamed himself. He didn’t react well when we told him that was who had you.”

A warm glow started to seep into D’Artagnan, but he tried his best to ignore it. He didn’t want to think about Athos just now, even if it was that the musketeer had been worried about him. He still had to ask. “Why would he blame himself?”

“Doesn’t he always?” Porthos asked wryly, and the younger man had to agree. “Well, we only found out about Marchal because we found a runaway. A young girl, Jacqueline. She managed to escape as they were putting her and some others into a cart to take south. We found her when we took refuge from a storm in an old barn a few days later. She was weak from cold and hunger, and exhausted. She’d already been raped, by at least three men before she escaped, she told us.”

“My God.”

“We brought her to the city, fed her, got the surgeon to her, but...”

“She died.”

Porthos nodded. “It was awful, as you can imagine. Athos took it pretty hard. He eventually told us he had a sister who died, aged 9 which we assumed Jacqueline was close to. Her name was also Jacqueline.” D’Artagnan felt a lump grow in his throat as he thought of the suffering his friend had been through. “Anyway, we spent months looking for Marchal. We discovered he had been abducting people from the streets to sell on to his clients for years. Nobody had ever seen the man, and nobody has yet. We found nothing. Eventually the tales of people disappearing died out, and we had to assume he had moved on. Until two days ago.”

D’Artagnan was appalled at what he heard. To think that countless numbers of people had been in his situation, and had been sold around the country to rich bastards who thought they could do what they liked with their ‘purchases’. He felt a little sick and pushed his almost empty bowl away.

“Got more than they bargained for with you though, eh?” Porthos grinned.

“Yeah, they weren’t best pleased to realise who my friends were, that’s for sure.” He replied to the grin with a small smile.

“Friends who you can’t share your troubles with?” Porthos’ voice was suddenly stern. D’Artagnan sighed. He owed his friend an explanation.

“I got a letter from my mother.”

“Go on.” The big musketeer looked at his friend with nothing but encouragement on his face.

“She...she asked me to go home. The farm is falling to pieces, according to her, and the money I send her is not enough to help. She says if I don’t go home and take over the farm, if I don’t help her fix it, then she will be homeless, destitute, ruined, and any other word she could think of for it.”

“I’m getting the sense that you don’t entirely believe her?”

“She likes to exaggerate.” D’Artagnan shrugged. “She’s always been a little dramatic. To be honest I think she’s just trying to get someone in the house for her to boss around a bit, since my father’s no longer there.”

“And this is what’s been worrying you?”

“Not entirely no.” Another sigh. “I wrote back and said I wouldn’t come. Then I wrote to my uncle and told him my mother couldn’t look after the farm anymore, and I knew he always wanted the farm for himself so if he and his family could go there, as long as they let my mother stay then I would be grateful if they could take over.”

Porthos was genuinely confused. “So you sorted the problem! This is what you’ve been keeping secret?”

“Yes. But the worst of it is that she has always hated my uncle. She detests him actually, and I have condemned her to a life in his company.” He could feel the guilt flooding through him once again as he thought about it. “She wrote to me again. She said how disappointed she was in me, that I obviously had no care for her at all. That I dishonoured my father’s memory by doing what I had done.”

“D’Artagnan, look at me.” He looked up into Porthos’ kind face. “She’s grieving. She will come round. I do not think for a second that you do not care for her, or that you have dishonoured your father in any way. I am sure that Aramis and Athos will feel exactly the same. I am also sure that if you keep writing to your mother, before long you will have a reply from her taking back what she said, and telling you that she is glad you are following your heart to become a musketeer. You always said you two were close, did you not?”

A glum nod was his reply. 

“Well then. Grief carries with it many emotions, but she will come round. Now, don’t you wish you had just spoken to us sooner?” Porthos raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“I’m sorry, Porthos. I should’ve trusted you.” D’Artagnan lowered his eyes, toying with the spoon he still held.

“Yes, you should have.”

“If I had then none of this would have happened.”

“Yes, but we would also not have learned that Marchal was back, so that we could do something about it this time. We will find him.”

D’Artagnan was not to be consoled. “But if I had then Athos wouldn’t-”

“Athos will be fine. You wait. He’s been through worse.” Porthos tried to look a little more confident than he felt. D’Artagnan nodded doubtfully.

“D’Artagnan? Porthos?” Both men looked up at the sound of Aramis’ voice at the door. He was smiling. “He’s awake.”

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D’Artagnan ran ahead as the three men bolted along the corridor to the sick room. He thrust the door open, remembering to catch it before it banged against the wall inside. He stopped and stared dumbly at the bed, relief flooding through him as he looked into Athos’ eyes, which were finally looking back at him.

“You’re awake!”

“You’re alive.” Athos answered him dryly, but weakly. He smiled crookedly at the young man who still stood frozen in the doorway, and the two musketeers that appeared at his back.

“Come on, come on. Get inside the room boy, I’d like to see this for myself.” D’Artagnan felt himself being thrust out of the way by an eager Porthos, who moved quickly to the bed and clasped Athos’ hand in a firm handshake. He grinned at him.

“You gave us a fright this time. What have I told you about taking on three swords at once?”

“Well I wasn’t sure you could handle any of them.” Athos grinned back, before growing serious. “Marchal?”

Aramis shook his head. “He wasn’t there, of course. But we brought some of his men back, so hopefully we’ll get somewhere.”

“And the men who took him?” Athos head nodded towards where D’Artagnan stood leaning against the wall, still unable to speak.

“Dealt with.”

“Good.” Athos reached for the water at his bedside, wincing in pain as he moved. Aramis quickly moved to hold the tankard at his lips, letting him have a long drink.

“You’re still in pain, you should sleep some more.” Athos nodded to Aramis’ suggestion. “We’ll wake you with some food in an hour or two. Come, let’s leave him. We should go to Treville, start making plans for Marchal.”

Aramis and Porthos began to leave the room, passing D’Artagnan who hesitated before turning to join them.

“D’Artagnan? Stay for a minute, please.”

He turned back into the room, closing the door softly behind the retreating musketeers. He moved to the side of the bed, waiting for Athos’ nod before he took his place on the stool once more.

“Athos, I’m so sorry, you should never have been in this position...”

“Wait-”

“It’s all my fault, I never-”

“Wait! Let me speak please,” Athos reached out and grabbed D’Artagnan’s hand to catch his attention, before letting it go and dropping it back onto the bed. “Are you alright?”

D’Artagnan just nodded dumbly, amazed that after all of this the man’s first thought was for his safety. He watched as Athos closed his eyes in relief, a sigh escaping his lips. To his shame, he felt his tears well up as he watched the musketeer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Athos eyes opened and he turned to look at the young man at his bedside. “No more of that. It was our duty to save you.” D’Artagnan felt something akin to disappointment grab hold of his heart. Athos shook his head slightly. “No, more than that, we needed to save you. I needed to save you. I don’t care what you think you did to get yourself in that situation, nothing excuses what that man stands for, understood?”

Again, he nodded dumbly. The disappointment melted away instantly as he realised that Athos’ eyes held their own sorrow at the situation – a remembered feeling of fear and horror.

“Although we will still have a little chat about the dangers of lying to your friends, and drinking alone.”

“You? Really?”

“I never drink alone unless I am safe in my own home.” Athos’ face was serious. “My brothers are always with me to look out for me. A mistake you will never make again, understood?”

“Absolutely.” D’Artagnan readily agreed.

“Good. Now I must sleep some more.” He closed his eyes, cracking one open once again when he heard no movement beside him.

“I’m staying.”

Athos rolled his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere you know.” D’Artagnan shrugged and looked at him stubbornly. “Very well.”

As he settled himself back to sleep some more, desperate to regain some strength to join in the fight against Marchal, he let the full extent of his emotions sweep over him for an instant, almost gasping aloud at the strength of the relief he felt as he thought of the young man sitting by his side; safe and well, and with them once more. That is why he said nothing when he felt D’Artagnan’s fingers slide gently over his before gripping his right hand tightly.

That is why he let himself smile as he felt D’Artagnan’s forehead lean down and rest against their hands.

That is why his left hand reached over to the young man’s head and gently stroked his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It's been a challenge but it's been fun. Now to decide if I have a sequel in me....thoughts? :)


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